Doomsday's Child (Book 2): Came Monsters

by Pete Aldin

  Unwittingly his eyes traced her figure before he brought them under control.

  Different shape though.

  The momentary scrutiny hadn't escaped her notice, but she didn't comment on it. She asked, "There's an E?"

  "There is."

  "E?"

  He dropped his voice again. "I trust you protecting the vehicle a lot more than either of them. And F..." He was suddenly out of points.

  Into the silence, she muttered, "I can think of a phrase beginning with F."

  "Classy," he replied.

  "I'm the car's bodyguard then?"

  He attempted some humor. "And getaway driver."

  She didn't find it funny. She said, "Arsehole."

  And he said, "I get that a lot."

  ⁓

  She took them down the road they'd tried yesterday and then down what appeared to be a narrow park ranger access trail. A kilometre and a half from the wall, she turned the Rover around and the three men got out. Elliot watched it crawl away and thought of all the APCs and helos that had left his various squads and platoons in other drop zones over the years.

  "You thinking you'll never see her again?" Woodsy asked.

  "I wasn't."

  "Oh. Sorry. It's just you two make such a good pair ..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing," said Woodsy and added unnecessarily, "It's this way."

  Halfway to their destination, Woodsy was puffing and Elliot pushed past him to take the lead. Jimmy kept up a flow of whispered gibberish, talking to himself; three times Elliot had to make a slashing gesture to get him to stop. They met no resistance along the way, the only signs of life in the damp bushland the squawking and cheeping of birds, the chirrup of insects and the occasional rustle of some small animal in underbrush. This did not mean that death could not suddenly erupt from all that innocence—in thick woodlands, rival human factions and drybones were not the only dangers. More than a few times, Elliot and other scouts had been troubled by tiger snakes, feral dogs and feral cats. The latter were arguably the worst: mean as bobcats and grown as large, the creatures were descended from domestic cats who'd reverted to the wild. They were not easily chased off. Elliot kept his weapon up.

  The three men halted at the edge of a firebreak plowed around the wall by some form of earthmoving equipment. Flood barriers, steel sheeting and wooden braces faced them across a gap of thirty metres. No one could be seen along the wall, though a nest of planking had been piled on a shipping container two hundred metres to their left for lookouts. Elliot wondered if the circling flock of cockatoos were the same ones as yesterday—and wished they'd shut the hell up so he could hear better. He kept catching the bass note of something in the vicinity, but it was too low to define.

  "You can climb that, son?" Woodsy asked Jimmy, who nodded gravely.

  "Better idea first," Elliot said.

  They followed his outstretched arm toward the whitish line in the wall off to their right.

  "A crack?" Woodsy asked.

  Elliot raised the field glasses. "Yep. A join, poorly done. So, how fast are you, Jimmy?"

  "Real fast," the kid boasted.

  Kid. Elliot had never thought of Lewis that way, even when Lewis had been five years younger than Jimmy was now. But Jimmy seemed immature—even by Lewis's original standards. His abuse at the hands of those Druids had badly damaged him. Elliot again regretted him coming.

  "All right then, listen up. You're gonna run fast to the wall." He pointed directly across the firebreak, the shortest route to cover. "You get there, you stop still. You listen carefully. If you hear voices on the other side, you break off and get right back here."

  Jimmy had his Glock in both hands, studying the grip.

  "You listening?"

  "Yeah."

  "What I say?"

  Jimmy's expression soured. "Run there. Listen. Run back if I hear talking."

  "Okay."

  Jimmy looked at Woodsy who nodded. "Elliot's right."

  "What if there's no talking?" Jimmy asked.

  "Then you quietly make your way to that crack in the wall. Take a good look. Then reverse the process."

  Jimmy frowned.

  Woodsy explained patiently, "Get back here the way you came."

  "Oh." He made to stand, but Elliot caught his arm.

  "Holster your weapon."

  "Huh?"

  "You're not shooting anyone unless there's a lot of trouble. And if that happens, we'll be shooting before you are. Your job is stealth."

  Jimmy holstered the Glock. "Can I go now?"

  Elliot removed his hand.

  The kid was as fast as a rabbit across the open ground. Elliot had rarely seen him doing anything besides gardening, fruit picking or laundry. Or flicking through comic books. He had to admit there was some physical grace at work here; the kid could have made a solid athlete.

  In another life.

  Jimmy did as he'd been told. To the letter. At the join between sections, he spied on the terrain beyond. He didn't stay for long, on the move again after thirty seconds. When he was back, he said, "Old crops. Looks like they had corn which is all dead and folded over now. No people."

  "No people?" Woodsy asked.

  "None."

  "Deaders? Drybones?" asked Elliot

  Jimmy shook his head. "There's more bush across like a road or a path. Dirt. And it looks like something drove down it not so long ago."

  "How can you tell?"

  "It's muddy. There's fresh tire tracks."

  Still a working brain in there. Nice.

  Woodsy patted the kid's shoulder. "Buildings?"

  "Couldn't see any. Just bush like this." He gestured around them.

  "What's on the other side of the wall itself?" Elliot asked him. "This section in front of us? Are there ladders? A walkway?"

  Jimmy scrunched up his face. "I think there was a ladder back this way a bit. Yeah, there was." He pointed to a spot about halfway to his spyhole. "Couldn't see what it led to."

  Woodsy had the regional map out, folded over inside its protective plastic. Elliot reached out and angled it his way. They'd sketched their idea of the wall across it in pencil last night, based on what they'd seen each time they'd approached: the wall, they thought, was uneven in direction, possibly following geological contours. Beyond it the map was largely bare apart from the narrow blue markings of creeks, a handful of roadways, the hamlet of Jericho and another larger town they thought might also be contained within the far southern boundary called Pankhurst. A medical symbol indicated a clinic or hospital. A school was marked there, too. Nothing but a regional name had been marked for the place where Woodsy said the facility lay. Elliot tapped a spot the map said was the exact middle of nothing.

  "We're here?"

  Woodsy said, "Yes. And headed there." He tapped the folded page's diagonally opposite corner. "Four kilometres."

  "Four and a half," Elliot corrected. "As the crow flies. Like I said at breakfast, best we meet this creek here and follow it. Adds a couple more kilometres to the trip, but keeps us near potential cover and off any roads." He pointed to Jimmy. "You're over first. When you give us the all clear, we'll follow."

  Watching Woodsy climb a wall, Elliot thought as the young man sprinted away. This'll be fun.

  ⁓

  Inside the wall, the terrain was familiar Tasmanian midlands. A patchwork of low rolling hills denuded of trees and green with winter grasses, contrasted with squared-off swathes of thick bushland. Paddocks and woods, paddocks and woods. Crisscrossed here and there with low wire fences, brooks or dirt access tracks.

  On their way to the creek shown on the map, they kept to the shadows cast along a dirt road by lines of pine and gum trees. Woodsy was breathing heavily within ten minutes. Jimmy had swung out deeper into the bush, but the occasional crack of a twig indicated he was keeping pace. Elliot could have gone faster, but rushing this would be stupid. And he had Woodsy to think of. Eventually he made out the chug of a generator north of the
ir heading—this was making the bass note he'd been trying to identify earlier. So there was fuel around. And people. A half-kilometre out from the creek, Elliot stopped to examine footprints in the soft soil; they seemed recent and made by heavy boots. Near them, an empty juice bottle had been shoved into a bush and was swarmed with ants. Further along he found desiccated corn cobs, perhaps months-old. A minute later, just as Jimmy was rejoining the older men, the rumble of a quad or motorbike made them all freeze and duck. But it was distant and soon faded.

  A narrow bridge came into view at a dip in the road—the creek. Elliot almost left the cover of the trees before he registered movement ahead.

  Christ.

  "Hold," he hissed and dropped into a crouch, the others behind him.

  A woman had shuffled onto the bridge, one leg dragging beneath her long skirt as she moved.

  Woodsy's shotgun rose.

  Realizing the woman wasn't a deader, Elliot pushed the shotgun back down.

  Moments later two more women joined the first, and then a teenage girl, all climbing up from the creek bank. Each had water in plastic jugs. The quartet trudged away from Elliot's position, crossing the bridge to place the jugs on a trolley he hadn't noticed until then. With their scrawny appearance and shabby clothing, their cowed posture, their lack of energy, Elliot would have made all of them as deaders if sighting them at a greater distance. The women's matted hair fell in tangled, greasy locks. Their t-shirts and sweaters hung loose on their frames. They did not speak that he could see or hear, merely walked slowly away with heads bowed.

  "Follow 'em?"

  Woodsy's murmured question shook Elliot out of deep thought.

  "Hell, no."

  "They look like they need our help."

  Elliot gave him a hard stare. "That occurred to me, too, Mother Theresa. It also occurred to me that it's off-mission. We're here for one reason only. And for all we know, they're as crazy as scav-rats and they'll attack us if we try and help them."

  "I guess."

  "We wait another five minutes. If no one else comes up from the creek, I go first then signal that it's safe for you to follow. Capisce?"

  "Sure."

  "Sure," Jimmy echoed.

  Goddamn moral choices, Elliot complained to himself as he waited. Those women might need help, but they might also lead him to an unpleasant situation where he put him and his team in greater danger. In a way, he'd tried to help that poor bastard at the Blueberry Barn and it hadn't worked out.

  No, I'm right. My duty is to The Downs. That's it. Anything else is unimportant.

  A grey shape bounded from cover nearby and headed for better cover across the road. A rabbit. Nothing to warrant this fresh spike of adrenaline. God, he hated being out here doing this. Had he seriously been considering leaving Settlers Downs to live like this full-time?

  Five minutes later, he made a dash for the creek with the Steyr up and ready.

  ⁓

  His dive watch read 11:13 when he allowed them to rest for the first time. Panting hard, Woodsy collapsed onto the creek bank. Jimmy immediately scampered up it to watch their surroundings. Past his position, the ground kept rising into a scrub-covered ridge. Preferring water from their canteens to that of the shallow stream, the two men also chewed dried fish and fruit.

  Clouds had closed over the sky, keeping the September sun at bay and the day cool. But all three men had stripped down to t-shirts, stuffing their sweaters in their packs.

  "Bloody pooped, I am," Woodsy wheezed.

  Elliot shifted closer, kept his voice low while he recalled the map in his head and overlaid their current position on it. "I'm thinking of a change in plans. We leave the stream and head over the ridge there. Still lots of cover, but quicker, and the high ground gives us perspective."

  Woodsy looked about to argue, then slumped. "Agreed." Red-faced, thin hair plastered to his scalp, shirt soaked, he didn't look like he had the short climb in him. But Elliot knew he did. He'd come this far without collapsing. He'd kept up. The shotgun's strap was tight across his chest, crossing the strap of a shoulder satchel; he hadn't taken either off, nor asked for relief from them. And that was a relief to Elliot.

  The only thing to be concerned about was whether or not Woodsy had it in him to take a life.

  "We didn't discuss facility guards in detail," Elliot said and sipped again before replacing his canteen's lid.

  "Because we won't know till we get there."

  "But you have been there."

  "Yeah, mate, once. I drew you the diagram at brekky."

  "And I remember it." Elliot used a stick to draw a bare-bones sketch of the facility's two ingress points. "You say this one is probably least guarded."

  "Because it's an underground garage. And the door's powered, so all they do is close it and leave it."

  "Right, but it might still be guarded. At least that side, that side of the building will. And here's my question. So we're clear: you're committed to killing them? Living people? Possibly former comrades."

  "I'm not okay with it, but I'm committed, yes. I've had to do it before."

  "Even though the signs all invited people into a happy community?"

  "From my experience, Settlers Downs is in the minority, Elliot."

  "Mine, too."

  "Those women back there—"

  "Forget them."

  "Can I make another point, then?"

  Something rattled bushes upslope from Jimmy and Elliot put his hand up, shutting Woodsy up. A moment later, a parrot burst into flight from the trees and Elliot relaxed a notch.

  Goddamned wildlife.

  "What point?" he asked, eyes still on that scrub up there.

  "I'm starting to wonder if the facility will be guarded at all. There's a shitload of land within these walls, but we've hardly seen anybody. There were crops. And a vehicle."

  "Two sentries at the northernmost gate. Four women back there."

  "You said forget them."

  "What's your goddamn point?"

  "Well, the women were malnourished and grubby. What if whoever built these walls was actually only a handful of people? Or they all died off? We don't know much about the other factions out there, but we do know that a lot of people died in the Collapse. Most people. Maybe there's not enough here to cover the whole place comfortably. Not too many sentries on the walls. And if no one who came here could get into the facility—entirely possible—they'd have long since given up interest in it."

  "Or there might be plenty of them sheltered in small interior compounds with enough weapons to be unconcerned about people climbing their walls. And some of them are guarding their highly valuable facility." If he could be sure it was safe, Elliot might have suggested returning to that northern gate and offering to trade some sheep or cattle. They'd seen no sign of livestock since entering. Perhaps a disease had wiped them out in this part of the country. Perhaps the deaders had. "If they're all so malnourished, it could be that the original wall-builders either died off or returned to Hobart. Could be, the people here now are basically scav-rats."

  "Squatters."

  "Exactly."

  More noise made Elliot glance up. Just Jimmy sliding back down to them.

  Woodsy said, "We could be raiding an empty facility. The builders might have taken the medical supplies back to Hobart. Shit."

  Perhaps Jimmy had caught something in their body language. He asked, "We going home?"

  Elliot shook his head. "Too close to leave now. We have to know." He brushed an early season bush fly from his Steyr. "And if it is guarded, well, then we know the good shit's still inside. You ready to climb that hill?"

  12

  The building was a windowless box, a single floor showing above ground, fifty meters by twenty. Heavy-duty chain link surrounded it. The facility was much as he'd pictured it from Woodsy's breakfast-time diagram and road trip descriptions.

  Leaving the other men hidden in thick bushland, Elliot reconned three of the four sides. The fourth side
faced a dirt access road he wasn't going to venture onto. The six-car parking lot out front was empty. Mid-building, a single entry door faced the road. A cement driveway ran around one side to the back right-hand corner and the only other entranceway: a steel roller door high and wide enough to admit a lorry; a ramp led down below ground. The roller door seemed to be stuck three-quarters of the way up, leaving the way clear for incursion. Perhaps raiders or ex-government people had left it that way as they ran off with the resources from inside. A lone white van sat idle on the lush lawn at the back of the building. Judging from the height of the grass around its tires and the missing left front wheel, it hadn't moved in a while. Thankfully, he encountered no drybones.

  He returned to crouch with the others among the trees, keeping his voice low.

  "No sign of movement or habitation. Front gates are wide open, a lot of weeds on the dirt road out front. Front door is closed and it's exposed, so we'll be entering via the rear roller door as discussed. That's our only option, right?"

  "Door inside will be easier to open than the front door," Woodsy said.

  Elliot pointed through the thick screen of vegetation. "Camera on each corner. No light to indicate they're on, but that means nothing. We're doing this for our people, so risks are part and parcel. If someone has time to sit and watch those cameras 24/7, then we'll deal with whatever comes. If we're doing this, we're doing this. But. One last time—" He looked toward the open roller door. "—you're convinced there are antivirals in there?"

  "I'm convinced there were before the crisis happened. Nothing left in any hospital will be any good. This is our best bet."

  "I prefer intel to bets. What's under the building down that ramp, for example?"

  Woodsy shrugged. "Loading dock?"

  "Great. Going in blind. Say your prayers, boys." His companions shifted uncomfortably. "First step: you keep an eye out while I cut us a hole in that fence. From there, it's a brisk walk in formation across the grass. We go direct to the loading dock entry. Any contact at any time, we get back to the fence hole, back to this point, then we get the hell out of here. If we make the ramp without contact, the real fun begins."

  "Fun?" said Woodsy.

  "You ever cleared a room, rescued a hostage?" he asked Woodsy.